Aftertaste
by zoulvisia
Summary: Dorothy knows Relena's morning ritual as well as she knows the Queen of the World herself. DR, mild angst.


**Title: **Aftertaste

**Author:** zoulvisia

**Pairing/Characters: **Onesided D+R, both characters appear.

**Word count: **737

**Rating/Warnings: **G. Angst, introspection, hints of femmeslash/shoujo-ai.

**Summary: **Dorothy knows Relena's morning ritual as well as she knows the Queen of the World herself.

**Author's Notes: **Written for the gw500 prompt "sugar".

**Disclaimer: **Don't own Gundam Wing, Relena or Dorothy.

**Aftertaste**

She likes two sugarcubes with her coffee.

I don't know why I have started to notice things like that. At least, I tell myself I don't. I tell myself I don't even notice them. But I do.

The spoon -- a tiny, silver thing -- makes delicate clinking noises against the precious porcelain _(I do not, do not, do not think of her skin when I see that white -- flawless... do not, do not, do not)_ of her coffee cup as I stir in the two sugarcubes I know she likes. The cup and saucer are painted with exquisite pale pink roses; the colour matches the velvet upholstery of the couch and chairs which are carefully placed so that they _look_ scattered around Miss Relena's sitting room. Everything in this room is expensive and tasteful; the plush velvet, the polished mahogany, the ivy-patterned drapes, the subtle pastel-hued paintings, the silverware and china in the cupboard directly to my left. The only sound is the soft clinking of the spoon against the porcelain, and the even softer sounds of my breathing.

Miss Relena will enter this room from her bedroom once she is dressed, in -- I glance at my watch. Exactly five minutes from now, at 8:45. The room is silent and barren; she is not in it, and to me it is like a graveyard _(no! it's just a room -- it's _her _room -- just a room!)_. I come here bearing a tray, with coffee, sugarcubes and milk, every morning, before she has risen. I cannot remember where I learned that she likes two sugarcubes and three tablespoons of milk in her coffee, but I remembered it, just like I remembered that she has a birthmark right between her shoulderblades and the pin she uses in her hair was bought for her in a Moroccan bazaar by her father when she was six.

I know all this. I know also that she believes I hate her.

Which I do, of course. She's beautiful, kind and the Queen of the World. I _(do not, do not, do not)_ hate her.

The sugar has dissolved. I add the milk. The door opens with a click, and I hear Miss Relena's slippered feet against the rug. I turn and smile at her. "Good morning, Miss Relena!" I say. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yes, thank you, Dorothy," she says. Her expression is calm. So is her voice. There are dark circles under her eyes and I would bet my hair that there are crow's feet at the corners of them. Her skin _is_ as pale as the porcelain of her coffee cup. Too pale.

She didn't drink coffee before she became Queen of the World -- before the dark circles and nails which even despite the perfect manicures still show signs of biting -- before me and my interference. She didn't drink coffee. She only started drinking it a week ago.

So where did I learn, again, that she likes two sugarcubes? Where and when did I learn that she likes to disguise the bitter taste?

Maybe _(interesting, fear is as cold as this cup of coffee in my hands is hot -- I'm not afraid!)_ I didn't learn it. Maybe I guessed it. Maybe _(not afraid, so cold)_ I guessed right, because I know her so well _(and I hate her!)_.

"I brought you some coffee, Miss Relena," I tell her. My voice is sweet, but like the coffee the aftertaste is surely bitter.

"Thank you, Dorothy." Her voice is polite and cold -- the hollow spaces where affection should be are as dull and icy as her blue eyes. I hold out the coffee to her; she takes the saucer carefully, seats herself on the couch, and I proceed to tell her the latest news. My voice lights up with joy and fascination when I speak of the wars with the Treize faction. She takes a sip of her coffee, and I see a quickly-concealed flash of disgust.

I know it's not the coffee.

When my father died, I thought I would die, too, of guilt and grief _(hah, I was a stupid little girl and sometimes the guilt rises up and squeezes my heart until I wish it would burst and--)_.

I let people believe I love war. It makes the _(nonexistent)_ guilt and grief easier to deal with.

So I let Relena believe I hate her.

Which I do, of course.


End file.
